yūgen
by heliosae
Summary: 'you are the witch' is said to her many times.


**Yūgen**

* * *

 _'you are the witch' is said to her many times._

* * *

 _The First Dragon King_

She comes to this land with bleary eyes and terrible cold setting in her bones. Harrie hadn't known how it had happened, but last she saw was the terrible face of Tom Riddle and that sickly light heading directly towards her. She woke up in what she now knows as summer snows, with the sun shining down across her face and a great willow tree swinging above her.

She has come to this world where magic is at its very core – bleeding and seeping through the world to come to life now and again. She is in a world where winters last for generations and summers for years, where the poor and rich alike fall to power and greed and the game thrones is a constant.

Harrie makes her home there, underneath that willow tree. A house which she would have loved to be raised in as a child, a replica of a long-forgotten home. In the summer, she dashes within the bumbling brook as naked as the day she is born, when the snows have melted and the warmth truly covers her lands. In the winter she is careful when she ventures out, knowing that within the woods it is easy to get lost, getting all the wood she needs and whatever animals that fall to her traps.

She goes into the towns and she comes to know of the Starks, but never meet them. She lives in the North, she is of the North – a hardy creature who cares for nothing below the Neck. The town she frequents is named White Harbour and within it are good people with good cheer and in times of winter, Harrie greets them with a smile and a nod. Later, these people would have warm bread in their homes and warmth in their beds.

It is here that the legend of the Witch from the North is born. She hears of a woman that sounds like her but greater, more extravagant and elusive. The witch that lives under the willow tree whose price to pay is steep but rewards are true and just. She is of honourable stock to these honourable Northman and she can't help but feel proud that they trust to go to her when they are at their most dire.

She makes sure that those that truly need something she gives her help with nothing in return.

The name Harrie Potter is a well-kept secret. The woman with the brilliant red hair and kindness in her bones. Who may be a witch, may even be a demon, but would raise no hand beyond that to protect herself.

It is a comfortable life she leads.

Then the dragons come and her world is never the same again. She meets the king who bathed in blood a few years after his conquest, when those who once ruled either died in blood and fire, or bent.

It is summer and the heat is in the air, softly and lulling a false sense of security around her. The berries of her home have sprouted, ready to be plucked and eaten. It is by one of these bushes that she sees him for the first time. Sees a human dragon for the first time and she disappointed.

He is a different sort of man compared to the Northerners she loves. A tall, reedy creature with lithe muscle hidden underneath his tunic, sharp angles and a stream of white-gold falling around his face. Harrie thinks that he must be a wood sprite, perhaps magic has truly manifested itself again, and not hid beneath the soil she takes care to look after.

All her hopes are dashed when he says, 'You are the witch.'

'And you are the man whose blood will fail.' Harrie says softly. She steps forward and places a hand on his warm one, already stained by the juices of the fruit that had burst. 'I would be careful of those, they'll destroy your mind and you'll become a raving lunatic.'

They stand across one another, two creatures that were not meant to be there.

'What do you want, King Aegon Targaryen?' She asks.

'You should have care with how you speak to your king, little witch.'

'I would – but you made him bow. So as I see it, I have no king. The North has no king and will know king until the wolves howl.'

'I could burn you.'

'You could try. But the North remembers, _your grace_. And they may not love me, but they value my services.'

'Do they value you so much that they can't hide you?'

'Trust me, king, I can look after myself. After all, you would not find this place had I not wanted it.' Harrie walks towards the bubbling pot, placed haphazardly on top of some coals, and places something within. 'Now, what do you want?'

'They say that you tell truths.'

'In a manner of a speaking, yes.'

'Tell me what we should expect in these lands.'

'You do realise I require payment.'

'I'll give you as much gold as you want.'

'Gold?' She snorts, letting out a snicker and shakes her head. 'What would I want with gold?' Harrie laughs. 'No, I make my price and you will either agree or disagree to pay it. But it that one price that I care for.'

'Name it.'

'You truly want to know my price, King Aegon Targaryen, first of your name? You truly want to know?' At the man's nod, Harrie hums and stirs the pot a little longer. She thinks about, glancing at the King with a curious look and wonders what she could possibly ask from a king. 'I want to love someone from your blood. Everlasting love. Not you though, you already have your sisters to think of. And I will not share it.'

'Just that? Someone from my family to love?' He asks.

'Yes. That is all I wish and I shall tell you your family's destiny.'

'Then we have an agreement.'

'Good.' Harrie stirs the liquid in the cauldron one more time before looking back 'I stand by my belief. Your blood will fail. You have come to a land that you do not understand. If I were you, I would go back east.'

* * *

 _Woman of Sorrow_

She has had many people try to kill her, take what isn't theirs and destroy her very mind. But Harrie is made of harder stock and she is a Northerner, through and through. She has lived in these lands for years, making her steady home and keeping her heartbeat constant within her chest.

Those who had tried to kill her die, their bodies are given to the river and allows nature take its course. Those who had tried to take what isn't theirs finds an itchiness to their body that is never relieved until finally they return what is hers. Those who try to destroy her very soul find themselves very sorry indeed.

She is unlucky in the fact she lives in a world of danger and horrors, where the men take what is believed theirs and women are in their servitude. Harrie knows she is one of the few that is truly free here in these lands. She hears stories of queens hurt and destroyed by those they love, high-born ladies who fall quiet at a husband's look and low-born women whose bodies are destroyed by humiliation.

But she lives in her house, underneath the great willow tree going into town when she needs to and answering the prayers of those that need her.

Harrie meets her second Targaryen on one such day, returning from White Harbour with a basket full of bread, cured meats, fruits and cheese. There sat a woman of melancholy, terrible sadness and a wretchedness Harrie had never seen before. For a moment, Harrie thinks that she is dirtying her gown sitting by the tree but the sad woman must have known that and so she sits down next to the queen,

'You are the witch?' she wonders, pure hope on her face and Harrie merely nods and smiles.

'And you are a woman of sorrow.' Harrie says, taking those characteristically warm hands into her cold ones. Harrie lets them lay in her palms, tracing the edges of the bruises and gashes that stain her hands. Another goes to the queen's face.

The bruises and cuts disappear, but not the memory of the man that put them there. She watches Queen Rhaella Targaryen break and break and break, for a moment she thinks she will see the body disappear into autumn leaves scattering to the winds.

But for all her weakness, Queen Rhaella endures.

She gives her a vile of liquid made from the berries with the instruction, 'Two drops will do. And his madness will forget you.'

'What do you want in return?'

'It is as I told your ancestor, I desire nothing but love from someone in your bloodline. And I will return nothing but unconditional love.'

'I have a son. He is good, noble – I think you may love him. I will tell him of you and perhaps you will meet.' There is hopefulness on her lips and Harrie rises, placing her hands on the queen's cheeks.

'Queen Rhaella, I hope that you find peace in that storm, your grace.' The dragon leaves, uncertain what the witch means. But Aerys Targaryen never looks at the face of his wife again.

* * *

 _A boy, loved_

He comes when the battle for the dragons is at its highest. Harrie stands in the doorway of her home, watching as he comes down the pathway. There are two men dressed in a white chainmail and cloaks behind him, easily towering over her and coming more south than most. The sun and the harvest to protect the dragon.

'You are the witch.' He states.

'And you are the man I was meant to love.' Harrie says with hard look. He is pretty, there is no doubt about that – this Silver Prince, this perfect warrior. She thinks she could have loved him before. Rhaegar's guards stay behind the forest line as he enters her home.

Harrie watches him take in the home, so different from his castle, placing a hand on different aspects of her house. The tied drying plants above, the glass jars filled with animal parts and clothes haphazardly thrown around. It is a mess, but it is her home.

'Is it true what mother says?' Rhaegar finally asks. 'That you are older than even our gods?'

'Older than the Seven, but not the Old Gods.' She replies. 'I came after but before your people came through these lands.'

'That old.' He says, taking in her youth with a look of shock. 'You do not age. How are you still alive?'

'They do call me the Witch of the North, after all.'

They had a calm talk that night with a dinner of cured meat, pickled vegetables and crusty bread fresh out of her oven. They talked about the banal, ignoring the war he had a hand in starting and the destruction of a father he should have put down. They talked about the weather, ignoring the magic that stemmed from Harrie and that silent power within the silver prince. They talked about places they would one day like to go, ignoring the fact that Harrie had no desire to leave her little haven, untouched by no animosity except for her own hands.

That night fuelled by the sweet wine she has come to like from the Reach, he lays between her legs, kissing her face, between her breasts and down, down, down. The fires in her home rises as she feels it release and a satisfaction she feels that stays with her for only a few minutes. The witch and the dragon prince lay down on crumpled sheets, watching the shine of the moonlight flick through the tree's leaves and into her home.

'I never expected such a calm place.' Rhaegar says. 'But it must be, if my mother got the reprieve she desired from here.'

'And what do you want?' Harrie asks, a hand twirling a lock of his hair, letting the silver play between her darkened finger tips. 'Everyone wants something from me.'

'What do I want?' he reaches a hand up in the firelight and she watches it glisten. 'Tell me something.'

Harrie rolled on her side, looking at the fire and says, 'You will die tomorrow, Prince Rhaegar.'

'And what do you want in return, little witch.' Rhaegar gets up, putting on his pants than boots.

'You already gave it to me.' A hand on her stomach and sad smile on her face.

Harrie thinks of the payment that previous Targaryens had promised her. She doesn't think she could have ever loved Rhaegar Targaryen the way he was now, maybe when he was younger and untouched by the defeat of princedom. But their son? Well there is no question of it. Harrie had fallen in love with that little boy the moment he opened those violet, violet eyes and stared at her with murky uncertainty. She feels the magic echoing within this boy, her little winter sprite and every day falls in love just a little more.

Beyond those violet, violet eyes – James Potter was his mother's son.

* * *

 _The Mortal Queen_

'You are the witch.' The woman that looks so much like the broken woman she had once known and the man she had lain with. Daenerys stares at her, an unimpressed look on her face and Harrie feels a shiver run up her spine. This was a true child of the Targaryen bloodline.

She was a woman who demanded destruction and annihilation much in the same vein Aegon once had. Harrie has heard the stories of her, the Tarly's that are no longer here, King's Landing underneath the dragons and not the slinking lions, the fire that desecrates the land and brings nothing but blood.

'And you are the Queen.'

'You are the witch?' Jon Snow asks by her side. Harrie takes in the boy, her lover's son who didn't know. There is no doubt as to why – like her own James, and even Aegon and Rhaenys, the children of Rhaegar are their mothers. He looks like a Stark, holds the same quietness and strength, but she sees that spark of mischief and wildness that is within ever wolf-babe.

'And you are the mortal king.' Harrie takes him in and smiles softly, 'you are every bit your mother and I am thankful for this.'

'You know why we are here.' Daenerys says, not caring for what she has to say. Harrie wonders whether it is because she is a witch. She had heard of the pretend-witches to the east, who use the magic of the land to corrupt all they touch. It makes her sick when she watches, it made her sick to watch the desecration upon the young girl dragon. But the magic of these lands lashes out against everything considered natural, unlike that held within her. Hers is solid, the magic belongs to her; after all, she does not wield it without asking to.

'I can see that you do not like me.' Harrie says. 'But you came nonetheless.'

'You know why we are here.' The Targaryen girl says again.

'They're very big, those three dragons.' Above, the dragons circle. Red, white and black – she wonders which James will ride.

Harrie looks to her son, standing by her side with a smile. 'James has seen them and stands to watch with a hypnotic look. Much, I think, like the two of you. Go harvest the herbs – I wish to speak to your father's family alone.'

There is no look of recognition between the three dragon children. Barristan would have likely told the girl-queen, her son's identity is no secret among those who knew the Targaryens. Ned Stark would know after he brought Jon Snow from the South, staying the night before continuing.

'I do not control my son, he does as he pleases.' Harrie says softly, watching James do as she asked in the herb garden underneath their window. 'But please, do not take him away from me. Please.' Daenerys goes to him and leaves Jon Snow by her side. She takes his hand, cold to her touch and says, 'I don't beg often, but I beg of you, don't convince him – he will agree.'

James Potter was born in winter. She bathed him in their brook by the house, showed him how to use the magic within him, and cleaned his clothes. Harrie would sit on the stairs leading to the house, watching him as he turned three, seven, and eleven and on. He would frolic in their land, coming towards her when he wished to know something and would hold her hand as they went further the boundary of their home. She had killed men for her son, murdered some in their sleep and poisoned others. She once sent a message to the Stag King, a warning and a promise.

This boy was her life for seventeen years. She had watched him go from a squalling babe to a man on the cusp of adulthood, awaiting his future.

That morning, before Daenerys leaves her and takes her heart, her love, Harrie grabs her hand and tells her, 'The dragons will fall. They will all fall and winter will succeed.' And the silver queen, who knew stories of those undead men on the other side of the wall, who had seen them with her own eyes, blanches and rips her hand out of hers.

'I hope, for your sake, this will not come true.' Daenerys warns.

To her back, Harrie says, 'and for my sake, I hope so too.'

Harrie watches her son go off to war, to fight the magic that pulse in his veins and in the world below their feet. She gives him dried petals of white heather, daisy and gladiolus mixed with oils from clary sage, fir and juniper. The day he leaves, with Jon Snow in the distance and Daenerys already on the greatest dragon, she kisses him on his forehead and watches him leave her once and for all.

When Jon Snow returns with a crown on his head and no dragons above, she breaks.

* * *

 _The Witch of the North_

It is said that a witch lives by the river. Every generation born after the Battle for the Dawn, knows to place something on the stump as a sign of penance for something they have forgotten. They do so when they know she sleeps, late in the evening and making not a sound when they arrive and not a whisper when they leave. They place a gift when they turn seventeen as a hope of guidance and protection. It is what King Jon Stark had done all those years ago. And it is what his sons and daughters did after.

In the dusk, she sits on the stairs that go to her house watching petals blown by the wind. She bathes within the brook. She launders her clothes. Her hands clasps at air as if to hold something, only to relax by her side and her eyes trace no movement in front of her. She picks up herbs and petals, holding a fierce love for white heather, daisies and gladioluses and enjoyed the scents of clary sage, fir and juniper. At night, she pokes at the hearth warming her home and goes to bed, dreaming of violet, violet eyes and an easy smile.

The dragons are dead.

The Witch of the North lives on.

* * *

 _Y_ _ūgen:_ _"a profound, mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe ... and the sad beauty of human suffering"_


End file.
